


Whatever Remains

by mariaWASD



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: EMP Theory, False Memories, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, POV Alternating, Season/Series 03 Fix-It, Season/Series 04 Fix-It
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-08
Updated: 2018-01-13
Packaged: 2018-10-29 08:37:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10850364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mariaWASD/pseuds/mariaWASD
Summary: For John, it's been a couple of days, for Sherlock, years have passed. To fix the mess they're standing in, they have to work together, but that's what they do best.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey there, this is my first attempt on a multi chapter fic and trying to write something that deals with what Mofftiss has left us with. 
> 
> I started writing this fic after seeing [this](http://johnlockiseternal.tumblr.com/post/160347120327/au-where-s4-doesnt-happen-at-all-sherlock) on tumblr. 
> 
> This is not betaed, so you'll probably find a lot of mistakes, sorry for that. I would love feedback and kudos, don't hesitate to tell me if you didn't like something as well. 
> 
> This is marked as explicit because I want to end there someday, but for now this is gen. If you're not into smut, I think you'll be able to still read this as I plan on ending this fic once I did the smut and you can simply stop reading before that point. 
> 
> Last but not least, I want to dedicate this fic to [Shawley](https://shawleyleres.tumblr.com/) who is such a lovely, lovely person and helped me a lot with this fic. Thank you <3

It’s been almost twelve days. Twelve days that feel like a lifetime has passed. John hasn’t left the hospital yet, he’s seen the outside world once on his way from the hospital’s entrance into a black car. And although that conversation only lasted for a few short minutes, he wasn’t able to pay attention. All he wanted was to go back to Sherlock’s room and stare at the monitors, watching the steady heartbeat, blood pressure and oxygen saturation and trying not to scream out of pure anger every time his eyes wondered over Sherlock’s body, drains running out of his wound, wires everywhere and worst of all, the tube in Sherlocks mouth, running down his trachea.

 

He’s in a coma after his heart stopped and he was showing no signs of life, even after several doses of adrenalin and cardiopulmonary resuscitation. They said the bullet did too much damage, said they stopped trying and even announced him dead. No-one believed it when the heart monitor started beeping again, it was one tiny peak on the ECG, then another one and finally a rhythm. They operated on him for six hours, gave him several blood transfusions and did everything they could do to try and save him. But since they stopped supplying him with oxygen and stopped reanimating him to ensure blood flow, no-one knows if or how much damage there is to his brain.

 

John woke up confused yet again to his surrounding, everyday that passed he expected to wake up in his bed at 221b and everyday the memories and emotions kept crashing back in that little peaceful time between sleep and full consciousness and every time he found himself standing up way too quickly, breathing way too fast and the sudden rush of blood from his head leaving him dizzy. He was in hospital, in one of the on-call rooms that he had no right to be and sleep in but occasionally Mycroft has his uses. Another one being that he put a great deal of British resources to the task of finding Mary. Mary, he was told that day in the car, being the one that shot Sherlock and currently on the run, having disappeared somewhere on the way to South America. But besides wanting her dead there was nothing John felt for her anymore, not even wanting an explanation, because there was simply no way in which she could justify shooting Sherlock.

 

He put on his clothes, brushed his teeth and made his way down to the canteen, although he knew he wouldn’t eat anything, hasn’t much for twelve days, he’s living on tea these days, trying to bring himself a little bit of comfort, but the hospitals tea, if one could even describe it as such, is nothing to what he so desperately wants to remember. The tea Sherlock makes, one of the few things he does without being asked, without John needing to ask if he can have one too, sometimes finding a full mug with cold tea somewhere in the flat after he came home from the clinic, grinning at the fact that Sherlock absentmindedly made too, even though John wasn’t there.

 

The thought of this never happening again crushes him, like it does several times a day. He constantly remembers these tiny little things in their life that are so small and seem so insignificant that only now, with the fear of this being over, these small everyday things are the opposite of insignificant, they are things that he never ever wants to loose and can’t see himself loose, because if that happens, he is not sure if he will be able to continue himself.

 

He’s standing on the staircase and hasn’t moves for several seconds, he knows that, he knows that people are looking, but he doesn’t care, he’s trying to breathe, trying not to panic but it’s not working and he does the only thing that has helped these past twelve days, he turns and sprints up the stairs, the route to Sherlock’s room in his mind from day one. He knows nothing has changed when he’ll arrive, he knows that it’s only been a couple of hours since he’s last seen Sherlock, but he needs to see him, he needs to watch his chest rise and fall and even though Sherlock is not conscious, he needs to see that his heart is beating, needs to feel his warm hand in his own, he’s done that from day one.

 

It’s right in front of Sherlock’s door where he again tries to calm his breathing and reaches for the doorknob with a shaking hand. He's seeing what he’s been seeing for the last days, the only thing that does change is the number of flowers and cards standing on the shelf in front of the window and Sherlock’s position on the bed. Of course he knows why this is done, Sherlock can’t move himself so this has to be done for him every couple of hours, but it makes John’s chest hurt like nothing has ever before. Seeing Sherlock there, kept alive by machines, wires and tubes kills him every time he enters the room. He’s seen every possible variation of this situation over the last days but it never stops shocking him.

 

Fortunately it’s late enough that the doctors and nurses coming for the morning shift have already seen him and so he’ll be alone for most of the time. Like every day, he pulls a chair from the wall up to the side of the hospital bed to sit down and start the long hours of just sitting and hoping that Sherlock will wake up today. These hours are filled with going through everything that happened in their lives since that day so many years ago when he walked into that lab and had no idea that his life will be changed completely. And it’s every time when he comes to the point he hates the most that he can’t keep the tears away. Sometimes it’s a few seconds, sometimes it’s several minutes. It’s the day Sherlock stepped off the roof of Bart’s, the day that ultimately brings them here, because if that didn’t happen, he would have never met Mary, never crossed paths with the woman that is now responsible for this.

 

He hates it so much because he now knows how he feels and felt all along and he hates himself for not realizing it much earlier, or rather not realizing it from the moment it happened. He’s in love with Sherlock and has been since the that day at the pool, wrapped in Semtex and Sherlock looking so horrified, something he’s never seen on Sherlock before.

 

Thinking this is not enough anymore, he has to speak these words and he has to tell Sherlock even though he wont hear it and maybe will never hear it, but it’s better than nothing. He takes Sherlock’s hand in his own, lifeless, wishing more than anything that that hand could grab his own and drags his eyes away from the monitors too watch Sherlock. He tries to form words, tries to will away that lump that’s suddenly in his throat, making him unable to speak, but he’s afraid that saying these words out loud will only make it worse. If he says this now he knows there’s no answer, no facial expression, no eyes that often convey more than Sherlock says out loud. So he closes his eyes, he thinks maybe it’ll be easier if he’s saying this, but doesn’t see what’s actually in front of him, saying it here in this room and imagining saying these words in their home, sitting opposite each other in their chairs with a fire warming their feet.

 

„Sherl— Sherlock…it’s me…John. You’ve been in the hospital for twelve days now. Your are recovering, but still in a coma.“ He knows his voice has gone hoarse immediately and he has to swallow a few times before he can continue. „It’s raining today, but it’s London so nothing new about that. Uhm, Mrs. Hudson is doing fine, she’s probably dusting our flat right now. Greg’s working on a case, but I think it’s barely a four on your scale, so you’re not missi—„ He’s crying again, the thought of The Work and Sherlock’s love for what he does and how his eyes gleam when a good case comes across is one of the many things John can’t think about, to know that Sherlock might never be able to continue his work, because of John, is making him nauseous. But he has to get through this, he has to speak these words now, because otherwise he might never speak them at all or never have the chance to do again. So he breathes, trying to push that feeling in his stomach down, trying to will it away.

 

He clears his thought, unbelievable nervous and he doesn’t even know why. „Sherlock, I’m sorry it took me so long so realize and I’m sorry that this is the consequence and I will never forgive myself for that, but you have to know that…that _I love you_ and I want you and this might be a completely selfish thing, because I have no idea how you feel about this and it’s fine if you don’t, but I love you and have loved you for a long time and you are right, I’m stupid, probably more stupid than everyone else for not realizing how I really felt for you, but it’s the truth, I love you and I wish I could have seen it then and there, wish to let you know and I’m afraid that I wont get the chance and will never figure out if this can become more than the relationship we already have, because Sherlock…you are the most important thing in my life, you have been from the day we first met, you put me back together when I was at my worst and you did it by simple being you, by showing me your world and I’m so, so stupid for not seeing it and I hate myself for the hurt I caused you and please, Sherlock, please come back, I need you and I don’t know what to do without you.“

 

And it’s now that he feels it, the slightest of pressure on his fingers and he stops breathing and his eyes shoot open, he searches Sherlock’s face and it’s there, tiny movements around his eyes. He stands up, still not breathing, but never loosing the grip on Sherlock’s hand. He stands there, staring at Sherlock’s face, the world reduced to the pressure coming from Sherlock on his hand and what he hopes is Sherlock’s will to open his eyes.

 

John is on the verge of hyperventilating now. „Sherlock, please, please wake up. I’m here, it’s John, everything's going to be alright.“

 

It is truly him waking up, he’s staring back at John, and it’s Sherlock like John has never seen him before, his eyes are full of fear, confusion and panic and it’s now that John reacts. He’s pushing the alarm button several times, because they have to help Sherlock, he knows Sherlock is not going to stay still and not panic and he still has that tube in his throat and he can’t help because he doesn’t know what to do, there’s no army calmness in this moment, no thought that would help Sherlock medical wise and he hates himself for that too, because he should be able to help, instead all that he can do and think about is talking to Sherlock.

 

„Sherlock, I’m here, it’s ok, you’re in hospital and you have a tube in your throat that’s what you’re feeling right now, but they’re coming and going to help you get rid of it and then you can breathe on your own, just try to stay calm for a few more seconds. I’m here, you’re gong to be fine.“

 

The grip on his hand is painful, but that’s fine, it’s the pain that grounds him, that keeps him somehow functioning at least a little bit and then there are several people rushing into the room, talking to each other, commands being given, but John doesn't hear much, it's nothing more than background noise at this moment and one of the nurses is gently pulling him aside and he has to will himself to move, to remind himself that they need to help Sherlock and that he’s no help, but somehow they manage to keep eye contact and it’s the single most intense feeling he ever felt in his life. It’s hurt, relieve, fear and panic and everything in between and around.

 

Sherlock is struggling and gagging and coughing and John’s afraid he’s actually going to faint because seeing Sherlock like this is so extremely painful without actual physical hurt, but then the breathing tube is finally freed from Sherlock and there’s a little bit of calmness returning to the room and John’s finally able to try and control his breathing, although his heart is still pounding so fast in his chest.

 

„John“ It so quite and so choked off that John almost didn’t hear it, but he did and now he's standing back at Sherlock’s side holding his hand, not once thinking about how it looks like to the other people in the room or what it implies to Sherlock, because Sherlock is grabbing his hand back, it’s lightly now, not laced with confusion and panic, but it’s there and John is beyond thankful to have that feeling ground him and bring some kind of order to his thoughts.

 

And John wills himself to be there for Sherlock, to be as calm and as possible and help as much as he can, although he’s the opposite of calm on the inside. „Sherlock, don’t talk yet, you have to rest and get your energy back, you’ve been in a coma for twelve days, I’ll be waiting.“ Then the confusion and the panic is back in his eyes and John knows exactly what these eyes are telling, without needing Sherlock to form a single word. „I’ll stay, Sherlock, right here, I’m not leaving you alone.“

 

That seems to calm him enough, his breathing returning to normal and his heartbeat lowering to an acceptable pace. While doctors and nurses are still working on Sherlock, they both keep eye contact and it’s that what gives John momentarily a little peace, because Sherlock is awake, conscious and looking at him and his eyes are conveying so much and it’s now that John realizes again how unique his connection to Sherlock is. They can read each other so perfectly by this alone and he never had that with anyone else, not in the slightest and it brings so much comfort to John already and he’s filled with endless warmth and relieve that he almost doesn’t notice when the last nurse leaves the room and they’re suddenly alone again.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm now very certain that I'm quite the terrible writer, so to anyone who takes a few minutes out of their day to read this, thank you. :) I really hope "practice makes perfect", I guess we will see. 
> 
> I experimented with this chapter by switching to a First Person POV for a second.

A case is the last thing Sherlock can remember, running out of a building, with John at his side, but everything about seems blurry, like a file in his mind palace after a rather sloppy attempt at deleting it, because something interrupted him. But he would never delete something about a case while on it, every little detail mattered, even if it seemed meaningless at that time. Before that then, John visiting with Rosie and Molly and then a message from Lestrade that lead them to taking the case. That memory is clear, but why is everything after that not. He’s in hospital and John is here, so possible head injury, although there’s no headache or pressure in his head, but there is a slight pain coming from his lower chest. That’s odd, he can’t remember being in a dangerous situation, falling, or rather anything that would lead him to wake up in hospital. 

 

He opens his eyes and thankfully John is still there, Sherlock must have dozed off shorty after the doctors and nurses were finished with him. John looks nervous, which is very unusual for him. They make eye contact and he can see that John is trying to speak to him, but something is not right. 

 

„Sherlock,“ John says, he’s definitely not quite himself. There’s worry in his eyes, but Sherlock is sure he’s not badly injured, he feels actually rather good.

 

„John. What happened? Why am I here?“ He wants to know, he wants John to explain what happened, since it’s John who was last with him.

 

„You got shot. Don’t you remember?“ 

 

No he doesn’t, not in the slightest. It was broad daylight and they where running, but they weren't running from anyone, that’s all he _can_ remember before waking up in a hospital bed. „What are you talking about? Who shot me?“ 

 

John’s shoulders slump down and he’s looking at the floor for a short moment before returning his gaze to Sherlock. „So you really don’t remember…It was Mary.“ 

 

Mary? That is impossible, Mary is dead, has been for months now. Taking her own life by jumping in front of the bullet that was intended for him. His fault, because he was sure Vivianne Norbury wouldn't fire, that any kind of resistance would be pointless, but he miscalculated and by that ending Mary’s life. ‘ _It was Mary’_ floats around in his mind and he’s suddenly reminded of the slight pain coming from his chest. No, not possible. His gaze shoots up to find John’s eyes again and against all odds he has to say this, even though he’s sure he will sound like he’s lost his mind. „That doesn’t make any sense. That happened two years ago.“ 

 

He’s holding his breath and staring at John, he’s breathing quicker and his firsts are flexing at his sides. „Sherlock…It’s been just a couple of days.“ 

 

Sherlock is lost for words, yet again by something John has said. But he doesn’t understand. He remembers waking up after that incident, Mary being the first one at his side, threatening him to not tell John, then leaving the hospital, making a plan how he could tell John, and in doing so shattering everything that John build for himself. Destroying the happy life he thought he lived with Mary, the happy live he thought he would live with a baby on it’s way. „Mary…Is she…“

 

„She’s gone, I don’t know where she is, she didn’t leave a note, nothing.“ 

 

„But…what about—„

 

„I don’t know, Sherlock,“ John interrupts, seeming to know exactly what Sherlock wanted to know. „To be honest I didn’t even see a pregnancy test and the first appointment would have been tomorrow. Christ, I don’t even know if it’s mine. But she ran, if there was any sentiment in her, because she’s carrying my child, I don’t think she would have just vanished.“

 

„But she didn’t vanish!“ Sherlock exclaims. „She stayed and we confronted her and we were at Baker Street, she was our client, she had a USB stick with her initials A.G.R.A on it containing everything about her and she said what Magnussen has on her would send her to prison for the rest of her life, so I made a plan to…to prevent that, to keep her save and that plan played out on Christmas and I…I shot Magnussen…and…and then I was send…I was being send away on a six month mission…and I…we said goodbye, John. But I was only gone for a couple of minutes before Mycroft called..because…because—„

 

„Sherlock, stop. I have no idea what you’re talking about, nothing of what you just said happened.“

 

„But that is absolutely not possible, it’s been two years, John,“ Sherlock yells. 

 

John steps closer and puts his hand on Sherlocks shoulder, trying to calm him down. „Sherlock, you’ve lost a lot of blood and you were under cardiac arrest and a certain amount of time without oxygen, I really hate to say this, but it may be possible that it caused brain damage, but they will test all of that in the next few hours, hmm.“

 

Was that it? Brain damage? But he knew quite well about the symptoms and the clinical picture such injuries displayed and although he could certainly not diagnose himself, especially not if he indeed suffered any kind of brain damage, he was absolutely sure. Everything works fine, his mind palace, John is easy to deduce as ever, no, there is no way. He has to make his opinion clear. 

 

He grabs John’s wrist tightly and stares directly into his eyes, letting John know that he was telling the truth. „John, there is no damage to my brain, I have memories of two years of my life, I can’t explain how or why, but it’s there, you have to believe me.“

 

There was a warm expression washing over John’s face, but it came back to concern immediately. „Sherlock, I believe you, I’ll _always_ believe you. But please, let them run all of the tests, at least for my peace of mind, okay?“

 

Relieved, although slightly annoyed at the prospect of sitting, or rather laying through hours of painfully boring tests, he agreed, knowing that the doctor side of John needed that objective information. „Alright.“

 

Just as quickly as the hand on his shoulder had appeared, it was gone the next second. But they were still staring at each other. It was intense, like it had been right from the beginning of their friendship up until the day he shattered that connection and destroyed the immense trust John had in him after two years of his absence. 

 

They are startled by the door opening and suddenly the tension that was there a moment ago is gone and replaced by looking at anything other than at each other and it’s maddening, he feels there is a lot that needs to be said, on both sides, and for once Sherlock wants to talk, needs to talk, because if all this is true, and he couldn't yet believe it, it would mean everything he thinks has happened in the last two years, or rather couple of days, was some kind of…what…dream? Hallucination? 

 

A young men enters the room, he looks way to happy on the outside for the day he had. _Overslept, had to take the train, because his car broke down, two…no three patients vomited on him today and he’s coming down with something himself._ Great. „You should go home, you’re going to feel a lot worse in the next few hours and I don’t really want to be—„

 

„Mr. Holmes,“ the men grinned, it was possibly the most plastered on, fake-smile he’s ever seen in his life. „I’m here to take you to your MRI scan, do you need another minute, I could wait outs—„

 

„No need, you can take him with you,“ John interrupts politely.

 

Sherlock glares at him, if of anger or the need to keep John by his side, he wasn't quite sure. 

  
„I’ll be here when you get back. You promised to do the tests,“ John reminds him, one side of his mouth ever so slightly tilted up. 

 

„Fine,“ Sherlock huffs. He really didn’t want to do these test, but between a few hours of testing and John looking and acting so not himself, he didn't really have a choice. 

 

***

 

It was half an hour and a couple of pissed of nurses later that Sherlock found himself laying on an uncomfortable examination table in a cold room and his head positioned in a device specifically for head MRIs. As the man who reattached the last wires that leads to the monitor to observe his vital signs leaves the room, a screechy noise makes him flinch unexpectedly, „Mr. Holmes, we’re ready to begin the test. This will take about twenty to thirty minutes, since we will be looking at both your head and chest, you don’t have to do anything other than lay as still as possible, alright?“ 

 

_Do these people get bored of saying the same lines to dozens of patients everyday? They’re idiots, of course, but even idiots must get bored someday, right?_. „I know how an MRI works.“ 

 

„I would have to say that to my colleague, who has been working here for twenty-five years as well, if he were to lay there, sir, it’s procedure.“ 

 

Pity they couldn’t see his his eye roll at this exact moment. „Can we get started?“ 

 

„As you wish, Mr. Holmes.“ He could here that fake grin even without seeing it. 

 

Finally, Sherlock has a few minutes on his own, no-one interrupting and besides the steady noise coming from the machine, that quickly turns into background noise, nothing to distract him otherwise. Time to sort out what the hell happened, or didn’t happen in the last years, or days, dammit, it was already becoming incredibly annoying. 

 

***

 

_It’s still the way I left it. Down the staircase (How did John call this case? A Study In Pink? I will never understand how he comes up with these titles.), turn right, fourth door on the left, here we are. And it’s all here, there’s the plan I constructed, Leinster Gardens, she did it in under sixty seconds, the photo of her projected on the wall, I really am a bit dramatic sometimes, she didn’t shoot John or me, a bit of a relieve to be honest, I wasn’t completely sure about that variable. Everything's here, including…that,_ _but after painfully acknowledging that there really was no physical evidence of Magnussen’s information, it had to be done, there was no other way. So, conclusion, these events must have happened, how could there such detailed memory otherwise?_

 

_What’s next? I solved the case of Emilia Recoletti. ‘Why do you have to be alone’ —Focus! How I would have solved the case if I’d been there in 1895. Staged her suicide with the help of an accomplice, then— ‘The brain without a heart’ —What? Then waited for the right moment in order to kill her husband in public, by that making— ‘You must have had experiences’ —John? Making people believe she was a ghost and using that to— ‘Dammit Holmes you are flesh and blood, you must have impulses’—What is happening. This is about the case, why is there— ’So what’s he like, the other me in the other place“ — Something is wrong, this is not supposed to be happeni— ‘Why don’t you two just elope’ — no, this can’t be happening, this is not real, what— ‘Mr. Holmes’ —Why would you call me that, this absolutely unre— ‘Mr. Holmes’ —what?_

 

„Mr. Holmes, can you hear me.“ 

 

„His heart rate is stabilizing.“ 

 

Sherlock slowly opens his eyes and he’s surrounded by four people.

 

„What is going on?“, Sherlock demands, blinking rapidly. 

  
„We don’t know, sir. We had to stop the test, your heart rate was critically high,“ says the one currently holding his fingers to Sherlock’s pulse point. 

 

„John.“ Sherlock suddenly realized he’s panting heavily. „I need to talk to Dr. Watson, where is he?“ 

 

„We don’t know, sir.“ 

 

„He’s said he’ll be waiting in Mr. Holme’s room,“ the men who Sherlock realizes was the one who brought him to the MRI scan corrects.

 

Sherlock tries to sit up, but is held down by two people immediately.

  
„Sir, you can’t stand up, please keep lying still.“ 

 

Sherlock glares at everyone who’s currently in his field of sight, he has to talk to John now, he doesn’t trust any other people here and John will probably be the only person who could help him make sense of what just happened. „Are we done here?“ 

 

„We finished the head MRI, sir, but we were supposed to look at your chest too.“ 

 

„I’m fine, no need for that,“ Sherlock declares, although not one-hundred percent sure about the truth in these words anymore, but he doesn’t really care. 

 

„Mr. Holmes, in response to your momentary critical heart rate, we should do more testing.“  


  
„See, there’s your answer: momentary. And if you don’t bring me back to Dr. Watson, I _will_ get there on my own.“ 

 

„Sir, this is really not advisable.„

 

Another men, standing further away with his arms crossed seems to contemplate. „We’ve got the head MRI, which was the primary reason to do this test and Mr. Holme’s chart says that the chest wound didn’t give any signs of complication over the last days. If there is, we will repeat the test immediately. I think, it would be possible to let Mr. Holmes go.“ 

 

„At least someone in this room other than myself has a bit more IQ than a jellyfish,“ Sherlock murmurs, but unfortunately it is too quiet amongst the discussion of the remaining two people in the room and he doesn’t feel the need to pay attention to that conversation in the slightest. 

 

The young men, still sporting that dreadful fake grin, turns around, „I will bring you to your room, sir.“ 

 

„Fantastic!“ Sherlock fake-grinned back, doing his best you-are-the-most-annoying-person look.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should mention that I have no personal or other experiences with panic attacks, so if this is unreal and offends anyone, I'm really sorry. 
> 
> As always, thank you for reading. The comments I got so far have motivated me so much and I'm very grateful. <33

After looking at his watch, for what John feels like is the 20th time in about three minutes, he decides that he has to do something to pass the time while Sherlock is away for his MRI scan. Even though Sherlock was stable since he awoke, he can’t stop the uneasy feeling in his gut. He wanted to talk to Sherlock right away, but he couldn't bring himself to say anything, minutes passed and when he thought he had gathered the strength to speak, he noticed that Sherlock was already on his way to sleep. He needed all the rest he could get, so John was in no way even thinking about starting a conversation and pulling Sherlock awake, no matter how desperately he wanted to. 

 

Now he isn’t that sure anymore. The brief conversation they had left him with his heart hammering in his throat, his hands sweaty and his mind running through thousands of thoughts. Sherlock had made it very clear that he thought to have lived through two years and even though John wasn't lying about the fact that he believed Sherlock, he couldn’t make any sense of it. He knew patients coming out of comas often reported having dreams or nightmares that were very realistic, but dreaming in a way that made Sherlock believe he has two years, without anything actually happening? 

 

John knows he is getting himself into a state of panic again. The thoughts of all the things that could be wrong with Sherlock are madding and he knows just sitting and waiting here isn’t helping. He has to distract himself somehow, even if it’s only for a couple of minutes. There is nothing he can do for Sherlock right now besides waiting and staying as calm as possible. Sherlock hates hospitals and especially their staff and if he really has memories of years that didn’t happen, it would be infinitely worse this time and John was likely to be one of the very few people, if not the only one that Sherlock would completely confide in, at least he hoped it would be that way. 

 

After all, he didn't really make it easy for Sherlock after The Fall. Even though he forgave him, the trust they had after was never the same as before and he knows his relationship with Mary didn’t make it any better. They saw each other infrequently and sometimes a week or two passed and it was even worse after the wedding, ending in finding Sherlock drugged up in an abandoned house. He hates himself for that too, no matter what reason Sherlock had. He was a terrible friends and should have been there, helped Sherlock, should have seen that he wasn’t doing well. 

 

Shaking himself out of these thoughts like he had done so many times these past days, he leaves Sherlock’s room reluctantly, taking another look at his watch and sighs. Only ten minutes passed and he was sure it would probably take another hour or so before Sherlock would be back. 

 

Knowing he wouldn't be gone that long John pulls the door closed and heads to the canteen, this time deciding on a coffee, feeling he could really use the caffeine right now. 

 

***

 

After waiting in line and taking a look at the sunny afternoon outside, he decides on a quick walk through the small hospital park.

 

Stepping outside, he takes a deep breath as the fresh air hits him and the warm sun washes over his face, he can already feel some of the tension leaving his body. He is a little bit shocked as he thinks about the fact that he spend so much time inside since Sherlock got shot, but leaving Sherlock wasn’t an option and even if, where would he go? Baker Street was out of the question and he had no reason and far less motivation to go back to his own house, it would just be a constant reminder of how he messed up his friendship with Sherlock and how an utter failure he was for trusting Mary. He should have suspected something, _anything._ But the grief made him weak, made him crave comfort, in any way possible and now, now he can’t stop being furious about how Mary had probably seen that, used and manipulated him in every way. 

 

Yet again he is shaken from his thoughts as his phone chimes and he silently curses himself for falling back into this dreadful cycle of what he’s done wrong and how he should have known and what he should have done differently again and again. 

 

This is exactly the opposite of what he should think about. He should think about how he can best help Sherlock in the next few days or weeks and he hopes desperately that Sherlock will allow him to help, physically as well as emotionally. But he would also accept if that is something Sherlock wouldn’t want and he couldn’t blame him. _His_ wife, although not much longer that’s for sure, has killed his best friend, not almost, she definitely had and it was a bloody miracle that somehow Sherlock had survived. 

 

He gets his phone out of his trouser pocket and opens the message. 

 

_03:47 p.m._

_Any news? -Greg_

 

_Shit_ , John thinks. He was so caught up with Sherlock and his own thoughts in the last few hours, that he completely forgot to inform the few closest people they had about Sherlock being awake and doing good, minding the circumstances. No doubt Mycroft already knows so he fires a short text to Molly and quickly calls Mrs. Hudson saying what happened and that he’ll explain in more detail later. Mrs. Hudson is noticeably relived and sounds like she is trying not to cry which makes John’s chest ache. She loves Sherlock like a mother and probably worries just as much. He sits down on the nearest bench, sats his coffee to the side and starts typing. 

 

_03:53 p.m._

_He woke up a few hours ago, sorry I didn’t text you right away._

 

It takes a few minutes before he gets a reply, he figures Lestrade must be busy with a case. 

 

_04:04 p.m._

_Thank god, I’m so bloody relieved. I really wasn’t sure if he’d pull through. How’s he doing? -Greg_

 

The aching in his chest intensifies at the thought that he himself wasn’t sure if Sherlock would make it. The bullet wound and the resulting damage might heal, but no-one could know if he’d ever wake up again and even if so, how Sherlock’s as a person might have changed. Although he thinks this is cruelly selfish, he would rather have Sherlock in any ‘condition’ than not at all, he lived through what that would be like and it broke him. 

 

Sighing, he thinks about what answer he could give to Greg. He doesn’t know how well Sherlock is actually doing, he has barely spoken to him and it will take several more hours and probably days till they have a conclusive picture about how Sherlock’s brain might have been influenced, but he prays, even though he is not a religious man, that that’s not the case. He doesn’t know how he’d be able to live with the fact that this incident might have changed Sherlock in a fundamental way and it’s not that _he_ would have a problem with that, it would be seeing Sherlock realizing that his brain might not work how he’s used to, seeing him not able to continue The Work. 

 

_No, stop right here_ , John warns himself. These are all what-ifs and could-bes and it’s of no use at all at this moment. He has to face this positively, as long as he hasn’t spoken to Sherlock a lot more and seen any of the test results, he shouldn't make blind assumptions. 

 

He settles on the truth. 

 

_04:10 p.m._

_Haven’t had the chance to speak to him much, he seems a bit confused, but given what happened and how long he was out, it’s not surprising actually. In short, I don’t know._

 

The next text comes almost immediately. 

 

_04:11 p.m._

_Any idea when we’ll know? This whole waiting is agonizing. -Greg_

 

John doesn’t have the chance to even think about replying as another message arrives. 

 

_04:11 p.m._

_Shit, sorry, it must be even worse for you. Didn't mean to sound impatient. -Greg_

 

He sighs heavily as he reads that last text. He know’s it’s been a terrible time for everyone who knows them and Greg couldn’t just stop working, he had to live with this and on top of that live with the stress of his job and he feels bad about that. John had just called in sick right away, knowing that he wouldn’t be able to work while constantly thinking about Sherlock. He absentmindedly taps his phone against his palm a few times before replying. 

 

_04:15 p.m._

_Don’t apologize, it’s been hard for all of us and I know you care a lot for him too. But I’m afraid we’ll have to wait a bit longer, see how he’s doing with conversations and all the other tests._

 

Suddenly realizing that more than half an hour has passed and he feels a little more calm than he did before, he gets up and starts his way back to the hospitals entrance, disposing his half empty cup of coffee on the way. Speaking with Greg always helped, no matter what the topic or how productive the conversation actually was. Greg was a very good friend and he understood Sherlock far more than other people did. 

 

When he arrives at the entrance to the hospital he turns around one more time, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, relishing the smell of late summer air, the sounds of birds and wind rustling in the leaves of the nearby trees and the rays of sunshine on his face. 

 

Knowing that he passed way more time than he thought he could, he makes his way into the lobby, up the stairs and quickly decides to return to his own room to grab a book he’s finished two times already while he’s been here, but it’s the only one he has with him and it’s better than nothing. 

 

After he’s done that and standing in front of Sherlock’s room once again, he takes a deep breath and knocks on the door. Since there’s no voice coming from the other side of the door, he opens it slowly to see if Sherlock’s already back and possibly sleeping in which case he would be fine with waiting and letting him rest. But the room is empty, hospital bed still gone, so he steps inside and goes to sit down on the small sofa at the opposite wall and sighs as he starts to read the first page of his book. He strongly thinks about burning it after Sherlock is allowed to leave this bloody hospital. 

 

***

 

John is about four chapters into the book and not really reading it as the door opens and a very annoyed looking Sherlock is being rolled into the room. John can’t keep a tiny smirk from his face because for a second, he’s reminded of the Sherlock before The Fall but then that feeling is gone because that’s not how things are now, not after so many years and so much that’s gone wrong. Nevertheless he’s glad to see Sherlock again, hopeful to be able to talk with him a little bit. He would understand if that’s not what Sherlock wants to do, after all that’s nothing they ever really did and it’s much worse now. 

 

To John’s great relieve, which he keeps mostly to himself, Sherlock starts to speak almost immediately as the friendly nurse from earlier closes the door after informing Sherlock someone would be coming the next morning for the first part of his neurophysiological assessment.

 

John knows it’s standard procedure for patients like Sherlock, but Sherlock doesn’t really confirm to any standards, does he? They wont be able to get accurate results when testing his long term memory by asking about politics or history. John makes a mental note to solve that problem, he’ll have the whole night anyway, he’s not slept well for the last days and that’s not going to change anytime soon. 

 

„John, can you go through what happened after we arrived at Magnussen’s office?“ Sherlock asks. 

 

John feels his shoulders relax a bit. He wasn’t sure how this conversation would start and how he could be of any help to Sherlock, but this is something he clearly remembers and feels relieved to give Sherlock straightforward answers to at least this. 

 

„Uhm, yes, sure,“ he pauses shortly so recall the exact order of what happened that day. „We found Janine, unconscious with a blow to her head. You found an equally unconscious security guard, ex-con you said, in the next room. I figured that whoever did that was still in the building and you told me so was Magnussen, probably somewhere upstairs. Er—„

 

„You wanted to call the police,“ Sherlock states but doesn't continue. 

 

John huffs, „Yes, which I know is a very stupid thing to do during ones own burglary,“ and to his surprise one corner of Sherlock’s mouth lifts slightly and he feels a warmth spread through his chest, something that he hasn’t felt in a very long time, but he tries to focus on further recalling what happened after that. „You smelled something and identified it as _Claire de la lune_ , which I told you was the perfume that—„ John has to swallow down the lump thats suddenly stuck in his throat. „—that Mary wore, but then you stated it was somebody else. Then I think you heard a noise and rushed off and I stayed with Janine.“ 

 

Sherlock is looking down in his lap, hands together and fingers fidgeting, John would even go as far as to say that he was slightly shaking. The need to reach out and comfort Sherlock is almost overwhelming, but he’s held back by the internal struggle if that would actually help Sherlock. He is afraid he would just confuse him even more by that sudden gesture of comfort and the intimacy of it. He decides against it and starts to steal himself for what he’s going to say next. 

 

Sherlock beats him to it though, stilling his hands and looking up at John, there eyes meeting. „What happened next?“ It’s just above a whisper and as soon as the words are out he’s looking at his hands again. 

 

John swore to himself he wouldn’t look at the monitor for Sherlock’s vital signs, it wouldn’t be fair to be able to have that kind of information while having such a conversation but he can’t stop his eyes from skipping to it for a second and what he sees makes his own, already fast beating heart, ache in his chest. Sherlock is under huge stress. Pulse and blood pressure immensely elevated, but thankfully still far away before the machine would emit any kind of alarm and notify the nurses outside this room. 

 

Seeming to notice John’s distress Sherlock looks up again and sighs. „It’s okay, John. I want, I need to know exactly what happened from your point of view.“ 

 

„Yeah, alright…alright,“ he says and to his horror his voice actually breaks a little bit. He clears his throat in an attempt to sound way more held together than he actually is. „I stayed with Janine for another couple of minutes, brought her an ice pack and a glass of water after she was able to sit up. I didn’t hear anything from upstairs and when you…when you didn’t come back I went upstairs.“ 

 

At the sight of Sherlock staring at him again, he turns around, unable to face him at this moment. The memories of finding Sherlock laying on the ground with a bullet wound to his chest flash before his eyes and he’s not sure he can prevent himself from having a panic attack this time. 

 

Seeing Sherlock there with a wound he immediately categorized as highly life-threatening, instantly brought back the images of Sherlock laying on the pavement in front of Bart’s, with blood running over his face, and he felt his life shattering all over again. The only thing thats keeping him from loosing himself completely in this state of panic is the voice that’s piercing through his thoughts. 

 

„John. John! I’m here, listen to me, I’m right here, I’m alive.“

 

It’s barely helping. 

 

„This is not working. John, I’m getting up and coming to you, I’m going to help you.“ 

 

This seems to suddenly punch him directly into the here and now. Sherlock can’t get up, not under any circumstances and most certainly not because John can’t keep his emotions together. 

 

He turns back around, panting and not quite able to focus on Sherlock, but he get’s the words out nonetheless, „No! Sherlock don’t do that. Stay in bed. I’m fine.“ It’s barely what he’s able to say before he has to pause and take a handful of deep breaths, feeling like he just sprinted up ten flights of stairs. 

 

„You are most definitely not fine,“ Sherlock retorts. 

 

„No, but I’m way better than you are, so please, stay there.“ 

 

Finally able to calm his breathing a little bit, he can now see Sherlock thankfully still laying in bed, only that he has turned one corner of his duvet to the side in order to get out. 

 

Sherlock actually rolls his eyes, but returns the duvet over himself before gesturing to the side to a chair thats standing a few feet away from him. „Then get the chair, sit down next to me and try to calm down, I’m not going to let you continue before you do that.“ 

 

Not knowing what else to do and motivated by the fact that Sherlock just asked, or rather commanded John to sit next to him, he does as he’s told. He still keeps a safe distance to Sherlock’s bed, nowhere near as close as he sat while Sherlock was in coma, but it has the same effect. For some reason it really helps, he’s feeling better almost as soon as he sits down, his thoughts coming to a pace he can deal with and the images are replaced by Sherlock in front of him, awake, breathing, blinking and looking at him. 

 

They stay like that for several minutes, looking at each other, just being in each others company. 

 

„John, you don’t have to continue. I understand,“ Sherlock says after another couple of minutes and the air not feeling as heavy anymore. 

 

„No…no, I want to. I want to, for you,“ John answers truthfully, with his hands over his face and elbows on the arms of the chair. He takes a few deep breaths before looking up again and continuing. „By the time I came up, you where laying on the ground, right beside the door. Magnussen was knocked out and just regaining consciousness. He said he called emergency services but I phoned them anyway, but they only told me they were already on their way,“ he finishes the sentence with a shuddering breath.

 

He knows what he’s going to say next will be the worst of it and he tries to scrape together all the strength he has to push these words out. 

 

„Sherlock, I didn’t do anything after that except monitor your pulse. I…I should have done something, I’m a bloody doctor, I’ve dealt with all kinds of injuries while deployed, but I just _couldn’t_. If I had helped you the way I should have, then you wouldn’t be where you are right now, just woken up out of a coma…this is all… _this is all my fault_ ,“ John chokes out, voice broken, looking away, because he can’t look Sherlock in the eyes, he feels responsible for everything that happened and he has no idea how Sherlock can even still stand being in the same room with him.

 

„John, you doing nothing at that moment was exactly right.“ 

 

At that, John does look back at Sherlock, but he can’t make any sense of what he just heard. He just stares and all he get’s out is a painful sounding „What?“.

 

„Think John, what is the most important thing you shouldn’t do when faced with these kinds of wounds.“ 

 

It hits John like a ton of bricks. How did he not come to that conclusion on his own? „Put pressure on the entrance wound.“, he answers shaking his head. 

 

„Exactly,“ Sherlock confirms, closing his eyes for a moment before opening them again. „Go on.“ 

 

John tries to push the thoughts of that sudden revelation to the side to further explain, „I think Magnussen went downstairs, although I didn’t see him after that. The paramedics came and stabilized you as best as they could, then carried you out of the office and I got in the ambulance with them.“ 

 

He thinks for a second if he should tell Sherlock about the things he’s said on the way to the hospital, how desperate he sounded, but decides against it. Sherlock was not conscious and retelling these details will only make this infinitely harder. 

 

„When we got there your state was so critical that they didn’t even bring you to the trauma room, they pushed you through to the OR immediately.“ He sighs before he can retell the last bit of information. „At that point I was not allowed to come with you, I knew that, of course, but they had to physically keep me from following you.“ 

 

There’s absolute silence and the way Sherlock looks at him is something that John has never seen before, maybe something similar in the time Before, but he can’t put his finger on it and it’s gone as quickly as it appeared. 

 

„I assume you requested to know what happened in the OR?“ Sherlock asks cautiously. 

 

John huffs and looks away, a little ashamed of himself. „Demanded would be the better word for it, yes.“ 

 

When Sherlock doesn’t say anything, John can’t help but return his eyes to Sherlock’s and the request behind them is obvious. He doesn’t want to say it out loud. Hearing it and then thinking about it countless times was worse enough, but he does it, for Sherlock. 

 

„They told me you pulled through, but—„ 

 

John is struggling to breathe, his fists are clenched so tightly his knuckles are white, the pain in his leg and chest throbs, his throat constricts and for a moment, he thinks he’s going to black out. 

 

John is shocked out of his state by a touch on his knee and it’s a wonder that somehow he didn’t jump away, he notes he didn’t even move a muscle and to his relieve, that single point of contact grounds him. He’s able relax his hands, breathe again and opens his eyes, wondering when he actually closed them. 

 

What he sees though fills him with a different kind of shock and fear. He didn’t even think about what that touch actually means, but it’s unmissable now. 

 

Sherlock has slid to one side of the bed, his shoulder not even on it anymore, his arm stretched out so he can barely reach Johns left knee. 

 

They’re staring at each other, John in disbelieve and Sherlock with that same look he had minutes ago that John still can’t identify. 

 

He somehow composes himself enough to finally say what he dreads the most. „You were dead, Sherlock. You flatlined on the operating table. They said they stopped reanimation. They. Announced. Your. Death. They actually said the words, Sherlock.“ 

 

After another long pause John can’t help but muttering out loud, „No-one knows how you made it back, they were shocked as the ECG started showing your pulse again and I’ve been trying to come to a logical explanation, but—„

 

„I went to my Mind Palace,“ Sherlock suddenly interrupts. 

 

„Your…Mind Palace?“ John repeats, brows furrowed. 

 

There’s uncertainty in Sherlock’s face and he seems to contemplate for a long time. „I knew right away that I was very likely going to die, even before any kind of help arrived, so I had to do everything in my power to prevent that from happening. The last thing I was able to physically do was to fall on my back, thereby hopefully preventing the bullet from dislodging and stopping most of the blood flow. After that…I mostly remember pain, because I stopped myself from going into shock. I had to trie and stay calm, but that didn’t quite work the way I wanted and so I ended up in the darkest place that exists in there.“ 

 

„What then,“ is all John can manage to say with the little amount of air in his lungs. 

 

It’s just now that Sherlock takes his hand back from John’s knee and slowly, definitely under pain, shuffling back to the middle of the bed. John feels cold, even though that point of contact did nothing to transfer heat and he has to deliberately breathe through the aching pain in his chest. 

 

„I thought about the people I know, the people that had an impact on my life for many different reasons, then the lights were flickering and I closed my eyes.“ 

 

John swallows audibly. 

 

Sherlock is not looking at John and his voice is just above a whisper, struggling after each word to keep going. „But when I at last thought about…you and the fact that Mary posed an extreme threat to you, I somehow managed to pull myself back.

 

„The next thing I know is that I woke up. But not here, I was somewhere else,“ Sherlock adds quickly and then sighs, seeming frustrated with himself and John is ultimately derailed of all thinking for a moment when he notices the faintest bit of color on Sherlock’s cheeks. 

 

John doesn’t know what to say, or even do. There’s not a single thought in his mind other than Sherlock saying he was thinking about _him_ in that last moment and…what? Coming back because he thought _John_ was in danger? He feels like he’s going to vomit any second and simultaneously feels hope rising in him that maybe, just maybe there’s is something of what he feels for Sherlock in this remarkable wonder of a man as well. 

 

But he knows he can’t do anything about that right now, it wouldn’t be good for Sherlock and he’s pretty sure he couldn’t even begin to think about what to do. 

 

One thing is clear though. 

 

He’s never letting him go without at least trying. This is the last time he’s putting this off and not because of fear, but because he wants to do it right this time, not another disastrous attempt like the first over dinner after knowing Sherlock for less than two days or after Sherlock overhearing his and Irene’s conversation. 

 

No, this time, he’s going to make it right and he’s never hoped for anything to work out so desperately than this.


	4. Chapter 4

This is not at all how Sherlock wanted this to end. He wanted data on what happened in the last moments of his consciousness and shortly thereafter. He knows he doesn’t have any information about that, the last time he retold these events he invented a story that made sense and fitted his plan. But since this is not the case and Mary doesn’t need protection anymore he needed to get the information from John, the person who could give him the most reliable explanation. 

 

He noticed right away that John would have a hard time doing this. He remembers laying on the pavement, conscious and hearing John’s reaction and he can remember how unbearable it was to just let it happen, to do that to John. And now it happened again, sure not on purpose this time, but that doesn’t make a difference to John. 

 

But Sherlock wasn’t anticipating this kind of reaction from him. John shouldn’t feel guilty, he didn't do anything wrong and it is definitely not his fault. 

 

This John is so very different from the John he still has in mind when he thinks about him. But there’s something else, something that he can’t make any sense of, something that he’s never seen in John before, not ever. 

 

He was going to get up when John turned around, knowing that doing so could very well risk his life all over again, but John seemed so distant, not even reacting to his words at first. 

 

He felt almost _compelled_ to touch John again when he was sitting in the chair, every muscle of his body tense, breathing ragged, eyes screwed shut and Sherlock realizes only now that he actually did that. 

 

And after all that, he couldn’t stop the words that escaped his mouth. He was barely able to keep himself from saying that it was Moriarty of all people who talked to him in that last moment. And that he was looking for John in his Mind Palace to stay calm, just to find Mary, shooting him ‘again’ in her wedding dress.

 

***

 

Since John seems to have calmed down significantly, maybe it is best to change the topic. At least for the time being. Sherlock knows it wouldn't be avoidable in the long term. 

 

„Dinner?“ Sherlock asks, hoping it will be enough to distract John. 

 

John looks up at him, surprised, but something has changed significantly, it’s a kind of peacefulness that is written all over his face and body and Sherlock can’t help but feel it taking presence within himself as well. 

 

„Uhm,“ John pauses, thinking. „Yeah, you’re out long enough now. I think that would be okay. Any ideas?“ 

 

„No hospital food. Call Angelo, he’ll bring it here.“ 

 

„They don’t have a delivery service, did you know that?“ John says amused, but is already getting up and pulling his phone from his pocket. 

 

Sherlock shrugs and waves a hand dismissively. „Not for the general population, no.“ 

 

„Yes, I know, got him off a murder charge,“ John laughs absently. „Is this actually going to work forever?“ 

 

„Obviously.“ 

 

They start giggling at that and for a brief second, Sherlock feels that they are back in the old days, before the roof and it’s consequences. A time of feeling at home in Backer Street and cases of glow in the dark rabbits and so many other exciting memories. 

 

But something is still different, Sherlock thinks. 

 

The moment dissolves quickly and is replaced by an awkward silence. Sherlock knows John is probably thinking about the same thing as he is. 

 

John goes to the sofa to retrieve his jacket and walks towards the door, turning around when he reaches it, phone already at his ear. „What do you want?“ He half-mouths with his hand on the doorknob. 

 

He shrugs and answers with a short, „You choose.“

 

John doesn’t seem to mind and just nods, saying he’ll be back in about thirty minutes and pulls the door close behind him. 

 

***

 

By now Sherlock has more or less accepted that what he thought were the last two years really was just some kind of very realistic dream, or whatever it was. He knows that there are no sleep cycles in patients under anesthesia and in comas, but it doesn’t change the fact that it happened. 

 

This is painfully obvious by the date on his phone, which indeed says it’s 2014, so does the newspaper laying on his bedside table and the muted TV on the wall was currently covering the latest news about the Ebola outbreak. 

 

Last but certainly not least is the blatant fact that John’s hair was back to a shorter cut and he was wearing jumpers again, or rather still, something that he realizes he really missed, because dream John somehow just stopped doing that.

 

Other than that, the differences are too small to make accurate conclusions. 

 

It doesn’t change the fact that his mind is constantly running through what happened in that time. He can keep this thoughts at bay when John is there, keeping him in the here and now, but when he’s gone his mind is filled with images on an endless running loop. 

 

Some of them are so vivid that he has to open his eyes again to make sure he’s not there, standingbetween water tanks, waiting outside John’s house desperate to talk to him or hanging on a railing above the Thames. 

 

When the door opens again, John shuffles into the room and closes the door a little bit more forcefully than probably necessary. 

 

The slam of the door startles Sherlock out of his thoughts.

 

„Where’s Rosie staying tonight?“ Sherlock asks without thinking and curses himself half a second later for the huge mistakes he’s just made. 

 

John sets the food on the table in one corner of the room and chucks off his jacket. He turns around with a confused look. „Who’s Rosie?“ 

 

„Nothing,“ Sherlock tries to dismiss, pressing two fingers to the bridge of his nose, still a little bit startled. 

 

„Nothing?“ John repeats. „Rosie is a name I assume, so shouldn’t that be no-one? And…you asked where she is staying tonight. Why would you ask _me_?“ 

 

„No-one,“ Sherlock tries again, in the hopes it might be enough to convince John that he doesn't want to talk about it. 

 

John thinks for a long moment, he doesn’t seem to want to let this go. „I’ve never heard of this name, you asked me directly as if I knew exactly what you were talking about, which I don’t. So…is this someone from your dream?“ 

 

Sherlock doesn't say anything. 

 

John steps closer. „Look, I’m not forcing you to talk about this, but you can’t live with that on your own, you’ll have to talk to someone eventually. Maybe I can call Ella, see if she has any appointments available.“ 

 

„No! Why would I want to talk to Ella,“ Sherlock snaps.

 

„Because she is a psychiatrist, Sherlock. She can help you work trough this.“ 

 

Sherlock rolls his eyes. „I’m fine.“ He knows it’s not exactly the truth. 

 

„A Rosie doesn’t exist, am I right? But you just asked as if it where the most natural think to do. That’s not fine, Sherlock,“ John pushes on, unfazed. 

 

He can’t tell John, it wouldn’t be fair, it’s only been a couple of days since he found out about Mary and to talk about a child he may never have or never see can’t possibly be anything apart from agonizing. 

 

Sherlock is not looking at John, but he can see the moment the thought strikes John anyway and he feels himself tense. 

 

„Was she…“ John breaks off, but the tone in his voice makes it more than clear what he want’s to say.

 

Sherlock stays quite, although knowing that doing so is more likely to give John the answer anyway. 

 

He can’t keep himself from looking up at John and the moment their eyes meet, the answer is there and he could just as well have said it loud and clear, the effect would have been the same. 

 

Even though John might have thought about this a lot and has come to terms with the possibility that there never was a child of his, Sherlock can see the moment when shock and sadness cross over John’s face. 

 

Although Sherlock doesn’t want to talk about it, he confessed either way. He curses himself for doing this all wrong again, saying too much at the wrong time and saying things that shouldn’t be said in the first place. 

 

He’s quite sure John will leave, at least for the time being to sort through this mess Sherlock made. The thought alone makes his chest clench and feel cold, even though he’s laying under a thick blanket in a warm room in late summer. 

 

John is still standing there, taking in a breath and then letting it out again, apparently unable to say anything. He sighs at last, turns around and get’s the food out of the bags and brings one of them to Sherlock’s bedside table, all without saying anything. 

 

Sherlock doesn’t know if he should feel relieved that John is not leaving, at least not right now, or be even more confused than he already is about John. 

 

When John finally sits down with his portion, he seems not that interested in it anymore. 

 

Sherlock watches John for long minutes, neither of them saying anything or looking at each other. 

 

Sherlock knows he’s said something John can’t possibly want to hear about. He just lost Mary a few days ago and possibly his child, so this is the last thing he would want to spent any thoughts on. 

 

Unable to look at John, he breaks the silence. „John, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—„ 

 

„No,“ John interrupts, getting to his feet and walking to the end of Sherlock’s bed. „You have nothing to be sorry for. If anything, I should be the one—„

 

„Stop giving yourself the fault.“ Sherlock says sternly. 

 

„But it is! If I hadn’t crossed paths with Mary and chosen to be with her, than _this_ ,“ he waves his hand up and down the length of Sherlocks body, _„_ wouldn’t have happened.“ 

 

„And you crossed paths with her because of me.“

 

John flinches briefly, but doesn’t say or do anything else. They look at each other, neither of them willing to give in. 

 

„Well, she’s gone now,“ John states after a while. 

  
Sherlock suddenly realizes that he never asked about what happened with Mary, his mind is constantly confusing reality with dream, what is real and what not and it’s frustrating. It’s difficult to constantly go back to that day, that point in his life and see everything from there, every time he let’s himself relax a little he’s back to being two years in the future. 

 

Sherlock is not sure if it’s a good idea to ask right now, but now that the question is there, right on the tip of his tongue, he can’t think of going any longer not knowing. 

 

Curiosity wins, so he asks anyway. „How did you—„ he clears his throat, „How do you know it was her?“ 

 

John runs a hand through his hair and when he reaches his neck he scratches his skin a few times before letting it fall to his side again. „I tried to call Mary multiple times while you were in the OR. She always answers, at least within twenty minutes or so. After an hour I called Mycroft. By the time you were out of surgery he called back, telling me she was last scene entering the Eurostar. You said you smelled her perfume and then it wasn’t an unreasonable conclusion. 

 

„She was quick and after she left British soil they could no longer track her with the same efficiency. Last thing I know is that her trail ends in south america and that was—„ he get’s his phone out and frowns, „—I think seven days ago. She could be anywhere by now.“ 

 

Sherlock doesn’t know what to say. This is all so very different from what he remembers, but it’s not impossible. 

 

Before Sherlock can say anything John concludes. „The thing is, I don’t care where she is.“ 

 

„But she’s your wife,“ Sherlock argues, unsure what he intends to say with that. 

 

„She is a murderer, Sherlock, at least in my eyes and god knows what else. She didn’t leave any traces at Magnussen’s office and she managed to disappear rather professionally, I’m told. So it can’t be the first time she did something like that.“ He crosses his arms in front of his chest, his body language speaking for him and telling ‘this is how I see it an nothing will change that’. 

 

„What about the baby?“ Sherlock presses and he knows he shouldn’t say it, but he needs John to see past his anger. He knows that the love for the baby is what kept John with Mary in his mind. John is an honorable man, a caregiver, he would never let his child suffer in any way, no matter how things are with Mary. 

 

It takes John a long time before he speaks again. „I’ve thought about this a lot the past days. She said she was on…birth control and I know that’s not always one hundred percent safe, but we weren’t even that…christ. We weren’t even that…active at all. And like I said, no test, no appointment, so in the end…it’s rather unlikely. Dammit I’m such a fool“ 

 

„You’re not,“ Sherlock tries to reassure him. „If anything, she fooled me and I took clues and made a false assumption.“ He waits for John to say something but he doesn’t, so Sherlock asks the one question that’s still dominating his thoughts, „Did you find anything out about her?“ 

 

„Not yet, Mycroft is still looking into that, but she concealed that part very well. Maybe she wasafraid you or Mycroft would look into that right after I met her and so she took precautions…I don’t know.“, John answers with a shrug. 

 

They fall silent. 

 

It’s not that Sherlock doesn’t believe all of that, but he can’t shake the feeling that this is all wrong. He already experiences the time after he got shot and that was the reality. Now he’s supposed to come to terms with a completely different story, one that’s only just started and he can’t help but feel anxious about the outcomes. 

 

He want’s this to be real, to be given a second chance, but what if he can’t stop himself from messing up again. It could very well end in similar situations and he doesn’t know if he can deal with all of that a second time. 

 

After a couple of minutes John clears his throat, pulling Sherlock from his thoughts. 

 

„Sherlock, this…thing with Rosie seems to be a big part of what you experienced. A baby can’t just disappear in an ongoing dream, so am I right that she was there for the whole of your two years? 

 

„Yes,“ Sherlock answers reluctantly. 

 

„Would you like to talk about it? I know it’s probably a bad idea to talk about that with me, so if you don’t want to, that’s fine, really.“ 

 

He doesn't have a problem talking to John, he couldn’t imagine talking about this with anyone else ever, but going though all of that again will be difficult. 

 

It’s hard to separate himself from the person he thought he was. The memories are there and yes, so are the emotions. They’re mostly locked up in a far away room in his Mind Palace, but they’re banging on the door, rattling inside him, stronger than ever and he can’t constantly keep them from getting out these days. 

 

He’s afraid he’ll say too much, just like he already has and if he does it again he’s afraid John wont be able to cope with that, because in the end, it’s what _his_ mind made up, it’s his opinion on people and how he sees himself that must have influenced it all. 

 

What if John will say that he’s not able to deal with this broken, recovering drug addict friend of his with an unexplainable coma-dream that went on for years.

 

„John, I—„ he starts, not knowing what he actually wants to say. 

 

John sighs, rubbing his hand across his forehead. „You’re afraid I’ll get angry or something because of what you dreamt.“ 

 

„How did you—„ he breaks off, a little baffled at how John just figured out what was going through his head. 

 

„It’s playing out on your face. I might be shit at deductions but I’ve come to think that I’m still pretty good at reading you,“ John says with his hands resting on his hip. „I swear I will not get angry, I have no right to do that.“ 

 

***

 

It should be easy to start, Sherlock thinks, but some invisible force is holding back the words laying on his tongue. Where does one even start, how much does John need to be able to understand. One voice in his head is telling him _everything, right from the beginning_ another one is yelling at him to say _nothing at all_. 

 

He looks up at John and the expression on his face almost overwhelms him. It’s so open, understanding and just John, yet there’s no uncertainty or pity.

 

It’s this that makes Sherlock decide, although still with no idea where to begin. Feeling unfounded heat rising on his face, he clears his throat and forces his mouth to cooperate. „Where should I start?“ 

 

John lets out a sigh and Sherlock can see his shoulders relax slightly. „That’s entirely up to you, I’m not forcing you to tell me anything you don’t want to talk about.“ 

 

So Sherlock does. 

 

He talks about how they kept the baby and Mary safe, what consequences these actions had. Sherlock keeps some things to himself, his last words with John on the tarmac being one of these things. 

 

Sherlock doesn’t want to let himself hope, he never really has, but maybe there’ll be a time in the future where he can talk about this, and not just recount what he said, but also explain what it meant. 

 

He goes through the time of Mary’s pregnancy, at least of what he witnessed of it and what the fictional John told him about it, he shortcuts most of the cases he and John went on, apart from one very interesting and exiting one. 

 

John keeps silent, except it’s his eyes that speak for him. It’s somehow possible for John to give his thoughts away with just that. Sometimes they’re curious or surprised, sometimes they’re giving Sherlock reassurance when he starts to struggle. 

 

It’s not until Sherlock comes to the day that changed so much that the one sided silence breaks. „…and we’ve just finished a case and were walking up the stairs when you looked at your phone and had 59 missed calls,“ he clears his throat, „from Mary.“ 

 

„Oh god,“ John breathes and throws his hands over his face. „That’s me isn’t it, that’s exactly what would happen.“ 

 

„Well, it was an interesting case, „Sherlock admits and continues. „You then drove us to the hospital, but she was pretty far progr—„ 

 

„Hang on,“ John interrupts. „I was driving? And you were in the back with her? Why would I be driving, I’m the bloody doctor, I should be the one helping her.“

 

Sherlock remembers Mary’s screams and the sight of it as well and that he felt completely out of his depths, although the process of childbirth is not a mystery to him, given the hours of research he had to do for various cases. 

 

A sudden unwell feeling blooms in his stomach. If it took only a couple of minutes to point out the first anomaly in logic about his coma-dream, what did that mean for the whole of it?   
  
Sherlock has no idea if he can stop himself from wanting to figure out what all of it meant and at what points he should have been suspicious, maybe should have been more doubtful. 

 

Maybe he would have realized that something was very wrong. 

 

But for the first time, he’s not sure if he can do it alone, if he’s able to go through all of that again. There are many things he thought he left behind, swore to never think about again. He sometimes wishes for nothing more than to be able to delete certain memories completely, but the emotional connection they had, made it impossible. 

 

And in the end, he doesn’t want to forget. Most of them are tied to John, good and bad and he would never give up any memories of John, no matter how much they hurt. 

 

With a deep sigh and a little bit less anxious feeling, he admits, „There seem so be a few things that don’t make much sense.“

 

John regards him with a determined look. „That’s alright. It’s a dream, they usually don’t make any sense at all. You want to make sense of it, right?“ 

 

„Of course.“ Sherlock answers immediately. 

 

„And do you think I would be able to help you with that?“ John asks tentatively, fidgeting with his fingers. 

 

„Yes.“ 

 

„Good,“ John sighs, „that’s…good.“ 

 

***

 

Sherlock continues to explain for another few minutes and they finally manage to take a few bites of their now lukewarm forgotten food. He tells John about the first time holding Rosie and how John laughed about the face Sherlock had made, how he grew more and more comfortable with her over time and a few other funny stories. 

 

John keeps mostly quite, except for the part where he insists that naming his child would never be a one way decision for him to which Sherlock had no idea why he would think of it the way he did in the first place. 

 

Sherlock miraculously manages to avoid talking about anything other than Rosie for now, the memories of Mary’s death playing in front of his eyes from time to time, but the words on his side and the question on John’s that is surely there are unspoken and Sherlock is glad about that. 

 

Letting Rosie’s name slip was something he didn’t want to do in the first place, at least not on the same day he woke up and everything being so different, John being so different. 

 

But in the end he has to admit that it feels good talking about it. 

 

***

 

Sherlock has to fight his eyes from falling shut every few minutes, but he doesn’t want John to go and he really doesn’t want to sleep either. 

 

A different nurse checks on Sherlock one last time for the day. She redresses the wound, asks questions about how he feels and then writes everything down in his chart. 

 

If any of the three people in the room think about why John stays while Sherlock is treated, no-one says anything. Although it’s been several years now, it was a common occurrence for them to patch each other up after cases that went not entirely peaceful. 

 

After the nurse leaves, the tension in the air has changed, it settled and they both know they should get some rest, yet both of them seem reluctant to broach the topic. 

 

John get’s up from the sofa where he was reading the newspaper while Sherlock was checked on and grabs his jacket. „You should sleep, you must be exhausted.“ 

 

It’s true, Sherlock’s muscles ache for whatever reason, he feels drained and his eyelids are heavy, indeed needing sleep quite badly. 

 

„Will you be there tomorrow?“ Sherlock wants to know. He doesn’t like sounding so needy, but the thought of being tied to a bed, especially in a hospital overrides that pretty quickly and he can’t help but want John’s presence. He always wanted and needed it, right from the very beginning and that never changed. 

 

In the time he was away, that craving for John at his side was excruciating, only the thought of one day having Moriary’s spider web completely destroyed and returning to John kept him going. 

 

Before he spirals down thinking about this part of his life again, Sherlock abandons that thought. 

 

When he meets John’s eyes he can see something like relieve wash over John’s face and John gives a slight smile. „Of course I will, text if anything comes up, okay?“ 

 

„I will,“ Sherlock says with an answering smile. 

 

John makes his way to the door pausing at it with his hand already on the doorknob. „Goodnight then.“ 

 

„Goodnight.“ 

 

When the door closes and John is gone it’s like all the warmth has gone with him, the whole room looks duller, even more bleak than a hospital room already is. 

 

Sherlock turns on his side with some effort, sleeping on his back has never worked for him and with every breath he takes, he sinks further into sleep, the physical and emotional exhaustion of the day making it self known in full force, but he simultaneously fights it in fear of what sleep will bring him. 

 

He can’t help but think about the possibility that this right here, right know, is the actual dream and that he’ll wake up and be back in that other world where so much more has gone wrong. 

 

When sleep catches him at last there’s one thing he says to himself over and over again. 

 

_I don’t want to go back._


	5. Chapter 5

As John closes the door to Sherlocks room he’s already stifling a yawn. The hospital is quiet except for a few nurses in the hallways and John finds it oddly calming. It had been a very long time since he’s last seen it at these times of day, the last would probably be his residency and after that only on the other side as a patient or visitor and visiting hours were always restricted to daytime. 

He didn’t really want Sherlock to know that he’s only sleeping a few doors down, now that he’s awake and doing better than John hoped he could, he feels a bit pathetic about staying here in the first place. Sure he still doesn’t want to go back to his flat and he can’t really go to Baker Street either, but a hotel would have worked as well.

Except that’s not true, even if he had known Sherlock would wake up today, he wouldn’t have changed anything. He still feels guilty about not being there for Sherlock on the day he jumped, he still thinks he could have prevented all of that if he had stayed at Bart’s. So no, he had to stay right here on Sherlock’s side and just be there, conscious or not, it was the right thing to do.

The thoughts still cause his guts to twist in the most violent way.

He makes his way to the on call room and then takes a quick shower and brushes his teeth. He pulls on a new pair of pants, realizing that they’re his last and then curses himself for really having to go back to his flat tomorrow.

He puts on his pajamas and a plain t-shirt and let’s himself fall face first into the bed. It’s not really that comfortable, but years in the army taught him to appreciate any form of bed and how to still get a enough sleep in it.

He let’s the events of the day pass in his mind again and he somehow feels incredibly good. Surely there’s still anger over the whole incident that Mary is responsible for and a kind of bone deep sadness that Sherlock was the victim of her actions, but there’s also hope and relieve that he finally has come to terms with his feelings for Sherlock.

Thinking back now, they were always there, not nearly as strong as they’re now, but there was definitely something right from the first day. He meant what he said that evening at Angelo’s, but he stupidly backed out after Sherlock’s reaction, not wanting to compromise this new found partnership or risking their plans on moving in together right away.

He thought he could broach the subject again later, but living with Sherlock often made this quite difficult and his own fears of acknowledging those feelings often kept him from even trying.

And when he’d gathered the courage those few times, he was more or less rejected in the typical Sherlockian way and over time, he came to accept that it was probably just something that Sherlock didn’t want at all and that was fine, really.

But maybe he just went in all wrong.

Hearing Sherlock’s best man speech was one of the most emotional things he ever listened to. He realized only then that there could really be more, that Sherlock probably did feel the same way John did, but it was the worst timing possible.

The love he feels for Mary is still there somehow, but he knows he loves something that’s not real and never has been. Everything he knows about her could be fake, everything from the outside to the inside, from the colors she liked to wear over the things she laughed about to the child she might or might not be carrying and he has a very determined opinion about that.

He turns around to lie on his back and holds up his left hand, the ring gleaming slightly in the light that comes through the curtainless windows. He doesn’t really know why he’s even still wearing it, he made up his mind about the divorce and he definitely doesn’t feel any love for the person he now knows as Mary, but there’s a difference between making up ones mind and actually, physically laying it to rest.

Mary did help him, there’s no point in denying that. He was at rock bottom after Sherlock’s death and he was about to give up multiple times and only after meeting Mary and getting more and more involved with her made the dark thoughts that constantly surrounded him less frequent.

It’s a madding internal conflict. Mary is the reason he’s alive today, her words and actions guided him through the endless tunnels of hell until he was finally able to breathe fresh air again. With every week he was able to function more like a human being again and he feels like he has to be eternally grateful for that. Simultaneously everything she ever did was fake and for what? If this whole thing was a game, what were her motives, what did she want to achieve in the end?

Was he ever _in_ love with her, or was the love he felt just born out of the fact that she saved him?

She wasn’t supposed to be like that, she was supposed to be kind, safe and to put it just as it really is, everything that Sherlock was not, so how could he ever be in love with her.

The level of anger and betrayal he feels for that are indescribable. His therapist said he had trust issues, which he can’t deny, and Mary broke that trust in the most ruthless and extensive way possible.

Making the decision now is easy, Sherlock is here with him, he accepted his presence and the last bit of feeling that was holding him back seeps away.

Should Mary really be pregnant with his child, then he’ll do anything to get parental custody. A child doesn’t need a mother and certainly not a psychopathic murderer.

He lets his mind wander for a few seconds and thinks two dads could be perfect and with that he gets up, opens the window, pulls the ring off his finger and throws it out the window.

Barely seeing it fly away until he looses sight of it, he feels like he can finally breathe as free as he never could before in his life and takes a few deep breaths until finally closing the window again.

When he lays back down he falls asleep thinking about a future with Sherlock and everything that that could entail. 

 

***

 

John wakes up slowly, the sleepiness still fogging his brain a bit and when he stretches, a few joins audibly crack, kindly reminding him that he isn’t in his twenties anymore. 

While still being in a half conscious state, his phone buzzes and he is suddenly aware of everything that happened yesterday and he feels himself smiling, a genuine one that makes him feel happier than he has been in months.

It’s certainly not going to be easy, Sherlock will need a lot of care to get him completely healthy again, but he’s more determined than ever to be on Sherlock’s side and never let him leave again, to do everything he can to make Sherlock happy.

He blindly fumbles for his phone thats laying somewhere on the floor at the side of the bed where he left it last night. When it buzzes again and he still can’t find it, he grunts in frustration and heaves himself over the edge of the bed to see where it is.

When he finally gets a hand on it and rolls back on his back, he sees three text messages, all from Sherlock.

_06:46 a.m._

_How are these people allowed to come in here at 6:30 am? SH_

John smiles to himself, Sherlock might not sleep much, but when he does, he sleeps late into the morning and hospital schedules don’t really work with that.

_07:11 a.m._

_Send help, I’m bored. SH_

_07:20 a.m._

_They’re going to torture me with completely unnecessary tests in about ten minutes, I might actually die. SH_

Although that last bit gives John a slight stab in the chest, he knows how it’s meant and he can’t help but smile even brighter about Sherlock’s typical over dramatic texts, he really is a drama queen.

Looking at the time, he realizes that he has about six minutes to get ready, and preferably get his hands on some tea as well, if he wants to save the poor sod that has to do the tests.

While brushing his teeth John thinks about how the next days and weeks will look like. Sherlock will very likely want to leave the hospital as soon as possible, he’s probably thinking about discharging himself already, but that could be very risky.

John would very much like to be there for Sherlock and help him, but he’s not sure if there relationship is at a point where they can go right back to those old times, caring for the other in the walls of 221b.

By the time Sherlock leaves the hospital he has no reason to stay in the on call room any longer and he would very much like to go home.

 _Home_ , John thinks. It’s sounds so natural and just right to call 221b home. No other place ever felt like that, not were he grew up, not in uni, definitely not the few months after he came back from the war. Not even his current flat felt like home while living in it with Mary, there never was that feeling of coziness and safety that 221b had right from the first time he stepped inside.

He wants to be home again, with Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson, with cases and adventures.

After rinsing his mouth with water, he takes another short look at the time. Still four minutes left, although the canteen is not open at this time of day, he’ll need to get the tea from somewhere else.

One of the nurses he’s come to talk with a bit over the last days is just leaving the room next door as John steps out of his room.

„Oh, hey Alice, how are you doing?“ John asks while walking towards her.

She turns around and gives him a kind smile. „Hey John. Well, don’t really like the morning shifts but I’m stepping in for a colleague, but other than that fine. I heard Mr. Holmes woke up yesterday, I’m so glad about that, he’s not on my patients lists this week, so how is he?“

„I think he’s doing good, but we’ll have to see the results of the neuro-phyical to be sure and he’s definitely not going to like that.“ John answers and returns the smile.

„No-one likes these tests, they’re hours of questions and basic motor skill tasks.“

„Yeah, you’re right,” John admits and then searches for anything he could still say. “Hey, do you know if I can get a cup of tea somewhere this early?“ He hopes she’s not sending him to a cafe outside the hospital somewhere.

She get’s a bundle of keys out of her pocket and unlocks the door they’re standing in front of. „Just help yourself and if someone comes in just act like you’re working here, no-one will really notice. And pull the door closed behind you when you leave.“

John is surprised by the offer, but is definitely not going to reject it. „Oh, thank you, I will,“ he gives her another genuine smile.

„Your welcome. Take care,“ she says leaving the room.

John tries to make the tea as fast as possible and is very much looking forward to a nice brew for a change. He makes two, one with just a splash of milk and the other with milk and two sugars, just how Sherlock likes it.

Before he takes the two cups, he has a quick glance at the clock that’s hanging right above the door, noting that he’s now almost six minutes late and hopes that whoever is with Sherlock right now is actually still there and not quit the tests and ran out the door in a fury.

 

***

 

Elbowing the door open with his right arm while holding a cup of tea in each hand and trying not to spill half of it, he starts to push it open just to have it yanked all the way by a man about his hight, a little heavier than himself with shortish light brown hair, almost the exact color of his eyes,who looks on the verge of either breaking down in tears or exploding and disremembering half the hallway. 

It’s obvious that the man is here for Sherlock’s tests and John slaps himself mentally for not being there from the moment that man entered the room.

He wants to be angry at Sherlock but can’t really. Of course Sherlock would get his usual lesson on social manners from John the next time they are alone, but right now, he had to deescalate the situation and hope to be able to convince the man that Sherlock would need these tests done right now.

He blocks the way out of the room in a way that he hopes looks polite and entirely casual, not forced.

Feeling a bit daring he asks with a smile, „How do you take your tea?“

„What?“ the man replies, startled by John in the doorway and his direct question.

„I have one with milk and one with milk and sugar, would you like one of them, either is fine for me.“ John lies, but he had a feeling that this would somehow take the edge off the man’s emotional state.

It works as he can see the tension in the mans shoulders reduce slightly and his breath evening out a little before the man answers with a frown. „Just milk. Why?“

„Great, here you go then, freshly brewed.“ John says with a small smile, hiding the disappointment of not getting a nice cuppa after all and handing the tea to the man. „Why don’t we talk outside for a moment, I’ll be able to explain a few things for you.“

Absolutely not convinced by John’s words, but agreeing nonetheless, the man nods and they step outside, closing the door behind them and walking a few steps away from Sherlock’s room.

John introduces himself as doctor which immediately wins him more trust with the man who’s name, John learns, is Dr. Elliot Tapping, a psychologist, specialized in various neurological testing. 

He spends the next fifteen minutes or so, convincing Dr. Tapping to go through with Sherlock’s examination and sipping overly sweet tee and trying not let it show on his face or get overly nauseous.

Dr. Tapping finally agrees under the condition that John stays there the whole time which is not exactly advisable since the tests should be conducted without any distractions nor is it legal since John has no relation to Sherlock, but seeing that John is a Doctor too, Dr. Tapping is willing to casually ignore some of the rules.

They finally return to Sherlock’s room and John gladly disposes the barely drunken tea in the next bin, but before they enter the room, John turns around stopping Dr. Tappings motion with a raised hand.

John smiles again. He's played middleman often in his life, but this time might as well be the hardest it’s ever going to get. „Would you give me a few minutes to talk to him first?“

„Sure,“ Dr. Tapping replies, taking a step back.

With an internal sigh, John enters the room and starts with throwing his best glare, although without much real anger in it, to Sherlock who naturally just rolls his eyes.

„John, I really tried. I’ve suffered through the first five minutes of him introducing himself and explaining what he’s going to do in at least four different ways. Do I look like I’m in the advanced stages of Alzheimer’s disease?“

John decides to not comment on the last sentence. „It’s his job, Sherlock. These tests follow a strict plan that have to be followed at all times in order to have a conclusive result in the end. I’m pretty sure, you know that, so why can’t you for once, follow through with something like this without picking that man to pieces in the first 5 minutes minutes?“

Sherlock’s laughs. „Oh please, I only needed 32 seconds to know all about him and then 54 more to tell him, speech, although being the fastest form of communication is still so very slow, I should—„

„Sherlock!“ John groans, „Not the point.“

Now it’s apparently Sherlock’s time to glare.

John tries to reason. „Look, you promised you would do these tests and you’ll hardly get discharged if you refuse to do them.“

„I could just discharge myself,“ Sherlock retorts and crosses his arms over his chest, but John can see that he’s not really able to do it in a dramatic fashion, in fact, he can see Sherlock’s arms hovering ever so slightly above his chest, without actually touching it.

„Yeah, over my dead body,“ John laughs.

Theres a short silence between them that somehow speaks for all the things that they haven’t talked about. At least not yet, John thinks.

„If I endure this, you’ll have me out of here by the end of the day?“ Sherlock asks and it’s more a demand than a question, but that isn’t really news with Sherlock.

„I can talk to your doctor and see if they’re willing to let you go, but I’m not making any promises.“

„Fine,“ Sherlock concedes.

„Fine,“ John repeats and immediately turns to the door, knowing that Sherlock will hate not having the last word and John winning for the time being.

While facing away from Sherlock, John can’t help but grin to himself. Although this is a bad situation and these few hours with Sherlock are not exactly filled with their usually domestic conversational topics from before, John can’t help but think how much he missed this.

 

***

 

Two hours tick by and the first test is finally finished. It took about a dozen glares from John whenever he could see that Sherlock was getting himself into the next outburst, but miraculously he managed to comply. 

The moment Dr. Tapping leaves the room for the thirty minute break he has to give between each test, both John and Sherlock breathe a loud sigh.

„Christ,“ John says, rubbing a hand over his face, „I had no idea how horrible these tests really are.“

Sherlock huffs. „Now think about how excruciating it is for me.“

„Yeah, I get it,“ John admits. He suddenly wants Sherlock out of this place immediately as well and hopes that the doctors will at least be open to a discussion about it. „I’ll take a quick step outside, see if I can get us a cup of tea?“

Sherlock eyes him suspiciously, but nods. „Not really anywhere I can go, anyway.“

„True,“ John grins, he just can’t help it. To anyone else that would probably be cruel, but they threw way worse things at each other over the years and Sherlock is never one to take something like that seriously.

On the way out of the room he catches Sherlock almost growling at him, but John can see right through that and there’s no real heat behind it.

John makes his way to the canteen this time, awful tea is still better than no tea right now, he thinks.

Before he gets that far though, he catches Sherlock’s attending physician who agrees to talk about the matter.

After a few minutes of back and forth arguments, the doctor sighs, „The _only_ way of releasing Mr. Holmes anytime soon at this point is to have the tests completed with a preliminary result that indicates no brain damage, a second and this time completed MRI scan of head, thorax and abdomen _and_ someone with a medical background attending to Mr. Holmes at all times for the next weeks.“ 

John is surprised that the doctor is willing to make that offer in the first place, but then again it’s Sherlock they have to deal with and a Sherlock in hospital is about as worse as it gets.

Point one and two are certainly not a problem, if they can get Sherlock scheduled for another MRI scan today.

But, although feeling rather optimistic, he can’t be sure about the last point. That would have been no problem whatsoever previously, they each took that role several times over the years, if concussion or sprained ankle, they where there for each other.

John can’t help but feel a stab of pain in his chest thinking about that. It’s been so long since they’ve just lived happy at 221b, at least for John it was the closest he ever got to feeling contempt.

Well there is nothing else he can do other than talk to Sherlock about it. He wants it, he wants to be there for Sherlock, help him heal in the best ways he can think of, but the thoughts of rejection, however ridiculous they might me, still creep into John’s consciousness.

John sighs, scratching his head. „Could you get him an MRI scan today, best to coordinate with Dr. Tapping about when he’s likely going to be finished and I would talk to him if there’s someone who can be there while he recovers?“

He can see the doctor's look of surprise when he says the last words and surely after staying at the bloody hospital for almost two weeks, the question about who could take care of Sherlock should be easily answered, but fortunately the doctor lets it go and just says, "I’ll see what I can do about the MRI scan and let you know if it can be arranged today.“

John thanks him and they go their separate ways. Seeing that he’s only got about ten minutes left, he would rather speak to Sherlock now than wait another few hours and be faced with an even more irritated Sherlock.

 

***

 

„I though you wanted to get tea,“ Sherlock says as John enters his room. 

John walks over to the sofa across from Sherlock’s bed and sits down, folding his hands in his lap. „Uhm, yeah I did but I spoke to Dr. Prescot instead.“

„Who?“

„One of the doctors that patched you up,“ he sighs and rolls his eyes.

„Ah,“ Sherlock acknowledges, but dismissing it in the next second with a wave of his hand. „And?“

„The only way you can get out of here in the near future is with the tests and a completed MRI scan—,“ John pauses, suddenly too nervous to think about the right words.

Before he can get any further, Sherlock interrupts, „That shouldn’t be a problem at all, I think you clearly saw what the test results will look like, I had no problems answering the questions and performing the given tasks of the first part of the test, the rest will be the same. The MRI scan yesterday, although not completed showed no signs of any brain damage at all and I’m sure if the scan would have been concluded there would be no signs of further damage of the thorax as well, so when do we leave?“

Sherlock’s half fake, half genuine grin would have made John laugh if there wasn’t the last part he had to tell Sherlock about. Well, nothing for it, _just like ripping a plaster off, Watson_. „There has to be a medically trained person with you for at least a few weeks while you fully recover.“

For a few seconds there is utter silence in the room, Sherlock’s expression is unreadable and John’s mind provided the most horrible ways Sherlock could answer.

Before Sherlock says anything his expression changes to into the unmistakable _John-you’re-being-a-complete-idiot_ one and although that normally annoys John, this time he is so unbelievable relieved and then Sherlock smiles. „Good, then get me out of here, would you?“

Even though they still haven’t talked pretty much at all, they communicated in silence again and John can’t help but smile himself. Maybe their whole relationship wasn’t as badly damaged as he thought it would be and that alone makes so much hope bloom in his chest.

 

***

 

Sherlock seems so have taken the possibility of leaving the hospital today as great motivation as there’s not one moment in which Sherlock might loose his temper and so the second part of the test is done and if it wasn’t clear before that Sherlock’s brain is as healthy as anyone else’s, it certainly is now. 

Sherlock’s mind is as quick, brilliant and compelling as ever.

But it still leaves them with the fact that Sherlock has memories he shouldn’t have and although what he heard about them up until now were easy to understand and rather positive in its nature, he is damn sure there were horrible ones too.

Their lives were dangerous and often enough on the crazy side in reality, he doesn’t want to begin to think about what it might look like in a dream.

 

***

 

After another pause, a quick bite to eat and the conformation that Sherlock could indeed have another MRI scan today, they start with the final part of the test. 

Even Dr. Tapping is noticeably bored by this point, but they finally finish up in the early afternoon.

An hours later there’s a knock on the door and Dr. Tapping enters the room again, looking tired, buthappy, if just for the results being positive or also for hopefully never having to work with Sherlock again, he’ll never know.

“Mr. Holmes,” Dr. Tapping says, shifting through papers in the folder opened in his arms, “there’s nothing to discuss really, the preliminary results are as positive as they can be and the finals wont look any different and all I need now to finish this is a signature-” he steps closer to Sherlock’s bed, turns a sheet of paper to Sherlock and hands him a pen, “-right here.”

“Excellent,” Sherlock says, signing the paper and handing the pen back, “I would be happy to convey my appreciation in form of a new addition to your soap collection, I know a really secret manufacturer in Swed—“

If John has ever seen somehow getting as red as Dr. Tapping does he can’t remember, nor has he ever seen somehow flee the room so quickly.

He decides to let the man rest and hope he’ll recover from today somehow.

Both John and Sherlock turn their heads away from the door and look at each other.

John get’s up from the sofa, knees cracking and makes his way to the end of Sherlock’s bed. “Was that really necessary? And how did you know he had a…soap collection?”

“Do you really not smell that, John? If he sit’s long enough in one place he smells like one of those soap shops, lucky for us it’s not a completely repulsive scent. He also carries a small piece of soap with him that he rubs between his left hand when he thinks no-one notices, he’s done it multiple times while entering this room. Since it’s very unlikely that he works in one of those shops besides being a full time psychologist and his immediate family is either deceased or lives far away, no-one can work there either, the only thing that that leaves me with is that he has a collection. Well, and his reaction confirmed that, don’t you think?”

They stare at each other for a few seconds before breaking out in giggles which then leads to a full laughter on John’s side. He doesn’t even know why he’s laughing, a lot of people have collections and even way weirder ones, but it’s just one of the seemingly ordinary things that one learns about people when being on Sherlock’s side.

“I really thought he would appreciate it, I do know that manufacturer in Sweden, very interesting case, you know that one lavender soap I have from time to time?”

“No,” John says astonished, “that’s from Sweden, because you solves a bloody case?”

Sherlock shrugs. “The owner sends a bottle whenever they’re back in stock, unfortunately that’s not as often as to have an ongoing supply, but I have to admit, it excites me a bit whenever a new one arrives.”

John can’t help but smile. In a decade or so Sherlock will probably have no need to buy any significant products for himself, since he gets send pretty much everything he needs, because he solved a case sometime somewhere.

Just as John wants to ask what that case was about the door opens again and one of the nurses steps in.

She looks at John and then at Sherlock, smiling. “A patient got cancelled, so we pushed your appointment forward, I’ll be taking you to the MRI scan right now,” Kate, as her name tag shows, says and has Sherlock out of the room so quickly that they barely exchange a quick ‘see you in a bit’ before John finds himself alone in Sherlock’s room again.

He lets out a sigh and smiles to himself. It's going to be alright, he thinks. He’s going to help with Sherlock’s recovery and maybe they’ll be able to find their way back to something like before Sherlock’s fall.

It will never be the same again, John knows that, but he hopes they’ll be able to find that domesticity again, the silence that isn’t awkward, the two puzzle pieces that fit so well together from the first day that it seemed like they had known each other for decades.

He wants to go home, he wants Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson, he wants the experiments and the mold, the explosions and the sulks, the rows and the bickering.

To be honest, he needs it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I only researched the testing a few minutes, so just go with it, it's fiction after all and I also don't want to break into a discussion about if a child needs a mother or not and I have not looked at statistics about that topic to have any other opinion than the one in the fic. 
> 
> So if you're enjoying it, I can't tell you how much comments motivate me and every writer in general. Thank you <33


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm very sorry for leaving this for so long. I didn't know how to continue this story and what I reread made me cringe, because well, I still don't know why this story has so many kudos.
> 
> As ever, I'm not a doctor. I tried to research as best as I could, but if something is inaccurate, just go with it. So enjoy and let me know what you think.

The first thing Sherlock’s eyes fell on was John’s left hand as he entered the room this morning. 

He was so used to seeing that ring on John’s finger, that he didn’t even question its presence. 

But now that it’s gone, he can’t stop thinking about what that means. John kept his ring in his coma-dream, after what Mary did and in the months that John was back at Baker Street and he still wore it after Mary’s death. 

He could have, of course, left it at home, maybe he’s just getting it cleaned, the possibility of John forgetting to put it on is basically non-existent. 

Why should his opinion on that matter be any different now, John still wants a family and someone he can spent the rest of his life with, and despite Mary’s action, she is the person who can make John happy, who can give him what he wants. 

Before he can get any further he’s startled out of his thoughts when his blanket is being pulled away and an annoying hand is helping him climb on the MRI table. 

He bites his tongue while he hears the same instructions he’s heard yesterday rattling through the loudspeakers of the room and decides not to go to his mind palace again, although it would be an ideal time to do so and he wants to revisit the details of his memories that happened at a later time in his coma-dream, but a repeat of the events that happened last time should best be avoided, he thinks. 

He wants this scan completed and leave this place today so he can be back where he belongs, back in the familiar walls of 221b Baker Street with John. 

With John, he’s going back home with John and why does that elevate his heart rate as much as it does? 

But Baker Street wont be the place he left. 

Rosie does not exist and he can’t understand the feeling that rages in him because of that. She was a construct of his mind so why does it feel like there’s a part missing in him, as if that part of him was ripped out and is now gone to a place he’ll never find it again. 

He can hear her laughter in his head, can remember how her tiny hands clasped at his dress-shirts while he held her, or how they curled around one of his fingers, he can smell the baby food that constantly got everywhere when he fed her, feel the soft curls of blond hair under his fingers. 

The day John send him a video of Rosie taking her first steps, walking towards John. He had imagined the smile John must have had at that moment. The first time Sherlock had earned their trust to babysit Rosie overnight, the fact that he hadn’t been able to put her in her little foldable crib, but rather let her sleep on his chest the whole night while he stayed awake, because he didn’t want to miss one single second with her. 

Sherlock closes his eyes and feels tears run from the corner of eyes and into his hairline. 

He’s crying.

He’s crying because that loss feels real and with an enormous wave of emotions, he suddenly understands how John must have felt after he faked his death. 

There one moment and then gone the next, not even able to say goodbye. Only the tinny few words they exchanged over the phone just like he hears Rosie’s voice right now, there, but dulled and the urge to go down the stairs to his mind palace and see her again in all her perfect details is so strong that he balls his fists in an attempt to resist, it wouldn’t do any good right now. 

He will have to get accustomed to the flat being only occupied by John and him, no toys laying all around the flat, no gates at the stairs, it will be so quite. A long time ago, he had thought that a quiet flat meant no John, but compared to a little toddler running and babbling about, the silence will be deafening. 

Will John stay even after he has fully recovered or will he go back to his house in the suburbs? Will he get himself his own flat in London again? He has a steady job, he can certainly afford a comfortable one now, not a tiny grey bedsit. 

Sherlock would love having John back, permanently. But John is not the same man he used to be, he has his own life, he is used to to living without Sherlock, so what is there to keep him at Baker Street? 

“Mr. Holmes?” a gently voice to his left says and Sherlock blinks his eyes open. “We’re done. A doctor will be with you shortly to discuss the results. We’ll bring you back to your room now.” 

He nods and eyes the offending hospital bed again. He would rather walk, he’s sure he can walk just fine. But the only thing he’s wearing is a crispy hospital gown that’s open in the back and he’s not really in the mood to have a useless conversation with one of these idiots, so he get’s back in and let’s himself be rolled back to his room. 

***

When he’s back and John smiles at him, his eyes fall immediately to the papers in John’s hand and he suddenly feels like a breath he didn’t know he was holding rush from his lungs. Brilliant, clever John did it, he got Sherlock out of here and Sherlock feels the need to just crush him in a tight hug, hold him tight like the time…

No, that didn’t happen, he’s never held John, _really_ held him, when it meant something other than that half hug at a wedding he doesn’t want to remember. 

“When?” Sherlock asks while John hands him the papers. 

“In a few hours, if the scan is clean. You just have to sign,” John says with a smile and whips out a pen as well. 

Sherlock stares at the documents in his lap, he can’t wait to be home, but he also dreads singing them and with it the fact that they will be back where they were before he jumped, together at Baker Street, without Mary for now, but with what feels like a lifetime of things they never talked about. 

He feels a warm hand on his shoulder and looks up to John, who is still smiling, but also looks a little bit wary. “Everything alright?” 

The warmth of John’s palm seeps through the thin material covering his skin and seems to flood his whole body. 

Sherlock signs and feels a bit of the icy dread he felt before melt away with John’s warmth.

***

John had been momentarily grumpy because they’d argued for a full ten minutes about why Sherlock had to be _wheeled_ all the way to the front door, even though he showed John and a nurse that he was perfectly able to walk by himself, but then at some point, John had traded a scalp massage with Sherlock’s compliance and he couldn’t quite remember why he had such a problem with it in the first place. 

He also accepts the black town car that conveniently pulls up to the curb the moment they leave the front entrance of the hospital and all too soon, but simultaneously not soon enough, they stop outside 221 Baker Street and John helps him up the stairs. 

To find Mycroft sitting on the couch, idly twirling his ever present umbrella between his thighs. 

“Good to see you, brother dear,” Mycroft drawls, but Sherlock can hear an undertone of genuine concern and he isn’t as irritated as he thought he should be. 

John carefully deposits him in his armchair and Sherlock has to close his eyes for a second when he feels the familiarity of it, how it molds around his body, as if remembering him and welcoming him, the texture of it’s used leather. 

He is about to reply something in the vicinity of bored/annoyed, when John heads towards the kitchen, just to stop dead in his tracks, looking to his right. 

“Why is my suitcase here?” he asks, turning back around. 

“I thought it appropriate to handle this task since you volunteered to help with my brother’s recovery.”

Sherlock ponders for a moment if he should deign this one of his remarks about his ever meddlesome brother but decides he can’t be bothered, doesn’t want to start an argument that would prolong his wait for the promised scalp massage and would rather keep the dull ache in his lower chest at the tolerant level that it is at the moment. 

John meanwhile stares at Mycroft. “You went through my pants?” 

Even though he regrets the burst of laughter that escapes him immediately, the look of utter mortification on Mycroft’s face is worth all the pain. Even John has started to giggle and has turned away to hide his face, which Sherlock finds to be a great loss not to be able to see.

“I had one of my agents collect your belongings and I can guarantee you, he will never talk a word about what he did and didn’t find, nor will he voluntarily remember, I can imagine.” 

That doesn’t make the situation any better for John, Sherlock thinks, but it’s a start. “So why are you here, Mycroft?” Sherlock asks, patience running thin. 

“Maybe I just wanted to see how my brother is doing after being released from hospital?” 

To Sherlock’s not so unwelcome surprise, there is at least a partial truth behind Mycroft’s words and he can’t help but feel the affection for his brother grow a tiny bit. He doesn’t acknowledge it though. “No, you wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t any important information for John.” 

“Me?” John asks, looking puzzled back and forth between them. 

“Indeed. John, if you would follow me. Perhaps we could use the the upstairs bedroom to talk in private.” 

John’s response is immediate and his tone hard as steel. “You can say anything and everything you have to say right here, in Sherlock’s presence.”

“This is a very personal matter, Dr. Watson. Are you sure you—“

“That’s why we stay right where we are. No secrets, no lies, everything you have to say to me, you can say to Sherlock as well.” 

The burst of affection and warmth and a thousand other things he can’t name momentarily take Sherlock’s breath away and he has to concentrate to follow what Mycroft says next. 

“Very well. At about 7.30 a.m. this morning, we received a report from one of our field agents currently undercover in Brazil, South America. He was involved in a crossfire between several militant groups that took place shortly after midnight local time. Since we debriefed all our agents about Miss Morstan, this agent was able make a confirmed visual based on built and facial features. Miss Morstan was shot in the upper left thigh moments later and then carried away by two unknown men who put her into the back of a van. Our agent was unable to pursue the target, but took a blood sample that he immediately brought to the nearest adequately equipped lab for testing. It was confirmed that the blood does belong to the person we know as Miss Mary Morstan.” 

Mycroft pauses, clearly not finished with what he has to say, but Sherlock is too impatient and snaps, “ _And_?” 

“And we also tested her blood for hCG levels, twice. Both results came back with a hCG level of under 2 enzyme units per litre.” 

Sherlock doesn't need to look at John to confirm that he knows what this means. He does it anyways and feels his heart clench painfully at the way John is looking. He's frozen in place, eyes fixed into the distance and for once, Sherlock can't read him. John is miles away, leaving Sherlock with no idea how to break through, what so say, how to act, or react. 

__Mary is not and has never been pregnant with John’s child._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hCG stands for Human chorionic gonadotropin, which is a hormone produced by the placenta after implantation. This is also what is tested with a urine pregnancy test, only that a blood test is way more accurate and can give an estimate about the weeks the person has been pregnant. 
> 
> Base level for a female, not pregnant is under 5 units/litre and it takes a few weeks after pregnancy for levels to return to normal. I couldn't exactly find out if it's the same for miscarriage/abortion.


End file.
